


Together in the Dark

by run run whithertits (whithertits)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Dark, Evil Sam Winchester, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Mute Dean Winchester, Soul Bond, Suicidal Thoughts, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whithertits/pseuds/run%20run%20whithertits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twins!AU, ages 3, 7, 12, 18, 25 and beyond.</p>
<p>
  <i> He can't see Dean's feelings like he can Dad's, Dean wound too tight inside his own head, but Sam doesn't need that with Dean. He can feel Dean's heart beating inside his own chest, and all he has to do is focus on that feeling to know what Dean's thinking.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tifaching](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tifaching/gifts).



> Written for the SPN Spring Fling on LJ.

(3)

Dean wakes to a wet bed and the quiet sounds of Sammy crying. 

He pushes himself up and rubs at his eyes and squints at his brother. "What's wrong?" he whispers. Momma and Daddy need their sleep, and Dean doesn't want to wake them up.

Sammy is curled up at the end of Dean's bed, head tucked into his knees and arms wrapped around them. "I had an accident," he whispers, and his breath hitches. He hasn't looked up since Dean woke up.

Dean cringes, and suddenly notices that the room does kind of smell like pee. He considers his options, Sammy on the other end of the bed from him, the wet spot separating them, and crawls over it to sit next to his twin. He sits close enough that their thighs are touching, and leans in to nudge Sammy's hunched over form with his shoulder. "I said you should have worn your pull-ups," Dean says. He grabs Sammy's hand and holds it between them; Sammy always feels better when they're holding hands. 

Sammy pulls his head up out of his knees. "You don't have to wear them anymore," he says, and his eyes are red. Dean feels his own throat tighten up in sympathy, but pushes the tears back. If he starts crying too then they're going to get nowhere.

"Well, I'm oldest," Dean says and uses the hand Sammy isn't clinging to poke Sammy in the arm. "You wanna wake up Momma and Daddy?"

"No!" Sammy says, and yanks his hand back out of Dean's. He looks scared, and Dean wishes he didn't. There's no reason to be afraid of telling their parents _anything_. 

Dean tilts his head. "I know where Momma keeps the sheets," he offers, and Sammy perks up at that. "I bet we could change 'em without waking anybody up."

Sammy nods, and Dean puffs up. He scrambles out of bed and pads over to their dresser. He can't reach the top drawers— Momma usually picks out their clothes— but that's okay, because they've got a step. He climbs on top of it and looks for something to change into while Sammy climbs out of the bed and reaches up high to turn on the light in their room. Dean shoots Sammy a quick, grateful smile, and pulls out the Batman and Spider-Man pyjamas Santa gave them for Christmas. He tosses the Spider-Man pair at Sammy and jumps off the stool to change into his own.

He's frowning down at the buttons he got wrong, undoing the ones at the bottom to fix it, when their door swings open and Daddy peeks into their room. When he sees them up he comes inside and shuts the door. "Now what are you guys both doing up?" he asks, his face crinkling as he smiles. 

Sammy ducks his head and kicks at the floor, and Dean stands up straight and says, "I had an accident. Sammy was going to help me change the sheets." He crosses his arms and plants his feet, chin stuck out stubbornly. 

Daddy blinks for a few seconds, looks proud and sad for some reason, and walks over to stand beside Sam, on hand resting on top of Sam's mop of hair. "It's good of you to help your brother out, Sammy," he says, and then beds down and picks Sammy up, easy as ever, and walks over to stand next to Dean. "How about I help you out, hm? I'll even teach you how to make the bed if you want, so you can surprise Momma in the morning?" 

Dean perks up at the idea of giving Momma a nice surprise. "Yeah!" he says, and darts over to the door and down the hall toward the closet. The hall light is on just like always, and Dean tiptoes carefully so he doesn't wake up Momma, too. He slides the closet door open and cringes when it slams into the wall behind the other door, and looks back at Daddy guiltily. "Too loud," he whispers loud enough for Daddy to hear.

Sammy's head is tucked into Daddy's neck, blinking his sleepy agreement, and Dean yawns in sympathy, even though he feels like he could stay awake now for _ages_ , like he does when Momma gets that look on her face when bedtime is coming around. He looks back at the closet, and realizes he doesn't know where the sheets are. He's seen Momma take them out of it loads of times, but he wasn't paying attention where they came from. He looks up at Daddy again and bounces on his heels. 

Daddy uses the arm not wrapped around Sam to pull down the penguin sheets and hands them to Dean with a quick smile. Dean holds the two piles close to his chest and breathes in their comforting smell, then runs back to his and Sammy's room. He strips the sheets off his bed quickly and throws them on the floor, then picks them up and puts them in the hamper when Daddy gives him a stern look. Daddy puts Sammy down on his own bed and presses a kiss to his forehead, but Sammy's already asleep. He turns to Dean and smiles, then unzips the cover from the bed that Dean forgot to take off. 

"You boys sharing a bed again?" Daddy asks as he rolls up the cover and gets a new one out of the top of their closet.

Dean stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. "Nope," he lies, and darts his eyes down to see if Daddy believes it before going back to looking at the stars. 

Daddy nods and shows Dean how to make the bed like they do in the army. Dean's arms shake when he holds up the mattress, but he doesn't mind, Daddy's voice soothing and low as he explains about angles and edges and all sorts of other stuff. When they're done Dean hops onto the bed and holds his arms out for a hug, which Daddy gives him, squeezing so hard Dean almost lifts right off the bed. He giggles and presses a wet kiss to Daddy's beard, and flops back down onto his pillow. 

"You boys gonna be okay the rest of the night?" Daddy asks, and Dean giggles when Daddy yawns, but muffles it into his pillow. 

"Uh-huh," Dean grins. He rips out his nice and neat covers and wiggles under them, all the way so his head is hidden. "I'm sleeping right now!"

He hears Daddy laugh a bit, and peeks out from under the sheet to share in the joke. He's tired all of a sudden, and he shoots a quick look at Sammy, sleeping all the way on the other side of the room. He forces himself to look away and settle down; Daddy said they should try sleeping in separate beds since they were getting bigger and needed room to grow, and Dean planned on growing really big, so even if he missed Sammy it wasn't like he was going to wake him up just to move over or anything. He could handle it.

Daddy picks their hamper up on the way out of the room, and looks back at them as he flips the light off, his outline bright against the hall light that's still on. "Night, boys."

"Night, Daddy!" Dean calls back, and settles down as Daddy leaves, the door still open enough to let in a bar of light.

He turns over on his side and looks at Sammy on the other side of the room, totally asleep, and takes a deep breath before he closes his eyes. He thinks Momma might have woken up; he can hear them talking quietly through the wall. 

He sleeps.

***

(7)

Dean doesn't talk much in the hours after Dad leaves on a hunt. It worries Sam; he remembers the hollowed out silence of the months after Momma died, remembers how Dad would rotate through tape after tape in the car, because whenever he talked to Sam without Dean jumping in, it was a reminder of everything that was wrong. Sam had worried that he'd lost his twin, too, Dean's empty eyes and tense shoulders a mask that even Sam had trouble breaking into, quiet inside as well as out.

Sam didn't tell Dad that after he left for the first time, Dean didn't say a word until he came back. It hadn't been like the weeks where Dean was checked out of reality, following instruction with no drive; Dean would eat on his own, went to bed, even smiled at Sam. But he didn't say a word until the lock clicked open the next day and Dad walked through the door. 

Dad doesn't need to know: he would just worry, and Dad doesn't need to worry with Sam there to look out for Dean.

It's gotten better, in the year that Dad's been leaving them on their own for one or two nights at a time. Dad's kept coming back, and the fear that Dean said strangled all the words out of him faded enough that Dean would talk, even if he seemed sad. 

When Dad closes the door behind him and the Impala rumbles to life in the parking lot, Sam jumps off the bed he shares with Dean and grabs his bag. The nightlight he stole from the house they stayed at after Mom died is tucked into the side of his duffle bag, and he plugs it into the wall beside the door. The sun is going down, extra bright at the end of the day, so it doesn't make much of a difference, but Dean relaxes a bit when Sam does it. 

Dad doesn't like the nightlight. Sam's heard him say that being afraid of the dark is normal, but that a little light isn't enough to save anybody. He gives them salt and sage instead, like that's going to do _anything_ , and Sam knows that if John weren't in the room with them those nights, if Sam weren't curled up close and warm next to Dean in their own bed, Dean wouldn't be sleeping.

"He doesn't trust us," Dean says all of sudden, breaking the silence that's fallen over them.

Sam throws himself down on the bed next to Dean, loose limbed and easy, and turns his head to look at Dean, sitting crossed-legged next to him. "Why do you say that?"

Dean rolls his eyes and bends under the bed to pull out Dad's journal and flips it open to the most recent page. "He's out there hunting monsters and he won't talk about it. He won't even let us out of the motel while he's gone!"

"He's worried about us on our own," Sam says. He's parroting Dad's words, he knows, but he also knows they're true. Whenever Dad leaves them alone the air around him turns a sick looking yellow colour, and it's only worse when he comes back, until he's checked them both out for himself. 

Dean huffs, and even though he's got a big front up about the whole thing, Sam knows that Dean worries just as much about their Dad being gone as Dad worries about them. He can't see Dean's feelings like he can Dad's, Dean wound too tight inside his own head, but Sam doesn't need that with Dean. He can feel Dean's heart beating inside his own chest, and all he has to do is focus on that feeling to know what Dean's thinking. The only time he couldn't was after Mom died, and Sam doesn't like to think about how scared that made him. 

"I'm going to ask him to start training me," Dean says, fingering the edges journal's cover. It's something Dean's been thinking about a lot lately, Sam knows. Dean admits it like he's ashamed, but that's just because Dean's stupid and can't feel Sam as well as Sam can feel him.

"You think he'll let you?" Sam asks. He doesn't know; Dad's always worried about them, but that tends to manifest as trying to lock the two of them up where they can't get hurt. 

"I'm pretty sure." Dean doesn't feel as sure as his words sound.

Sam rolls over onto his stomach and leans his head on his hands. "We could ask him together?" he offers. He isn't that into the idea of whatever kind of training Dad would think up, but he knows Dad is be more likely to cave if they present a united front. 

Sam's chest warms with a sudden influx of love, overflowing like it sometimes does when Dean is happy. Dean ducks his head for a second, 'cause he's shy, then throws himself down next to Sam. "You sure?" he asks. He never seems to expect Sam doing things like this for him, like he doesn't think it's worth it for Sam to make sacrifices just so he can be happy. It bugs Sam, but he knows all he can do is keep doing things for Dean until he _gets it_.

"Yeah." Sam shoots Dean a glance out of the side of his eye. "But you need to start coming with me to library. If you're going to be running around shooting at things, you need to be able to make sure you're shooting the _right_ thing."

Dean doesn't look too enthusiastic about the research side of things, but Sam knows that research is just as important as the hunt itself. John only ever spends a few days at a time on the actual hunt, but he sometimes spends weeks figuring out what's he's hunting. 

"We're gonna make a great team when we're older," Dean says. 

Dean's heart beats beside his own, filling Sam's chest up with everything he needs, and Sam smiles. "We make a great team now."

The sun's down by now, and the nightlight isn't enough to see the corners of the room, but Sam has never needed a light to see Dean. 

Eventually, Dean will get up and find some cartoons on the TV, but for now they sit together in the faint light and breathe. 

***

(12)

Sam hates puberty. 

Before puberty, he and Dean were inseparable. They were twins, brothers, complimenting each other perfectly, so in synch they could even take down their dad in training exercises. 

By the time their twelfth birthday rolls around, that synchronicity is broken. Sam feels like time has ripped his brother away from him. Over the course of a handful of months, Dean grows enough that he _looks_ older, like they're separated by years instead of a few scant minutes. People start looking at them differently. Every time a waitress smiles at Dean but pinches Sam's cheek, every time a girl tries to catch Dean's eye and calls Sam his "kid brother", it's like needles are being jabbed under Sam's skin. Sam figures that in reality, there's no more than four inches separating them, but those four inches are enough to change _everything_. Dean looks, acts, like a teenager, and Sam still looks like a fucking _kid_. 

It's not even like Dean's gotten the bad parts of being a teenager, either. His skin is completely clear except for a golden spray of freckles. He's filling out, getting broad, and Sam's still so skinny he looks more closely related to a beanpole than to his twin, let alone their ox of a father. 

If it weren't for the steady, comforting thump of Dean's heart beating next to his own, Sam would probably be going crazy. More crazy. 

Dean doesn't mean to do it, Sam knows. But there's a hungry place inside of Dean that even Sam hasn't been able to fill, and some part of him revels in the solitary attention. He's the perfect image of glowing, vital health, and even at his most lonely Sam can't think of that as a bad thing. 

When Sam has his first vision, waiting for his brother to finish making doe eyes at their waitress, alone, he considers the idea that maybe Dean's earlier "development" is a good thing. The sight of their father, staggering into the side of the Impala as he holds one blood-covered hand over his stomach, sends Sam to the nearest patch of bushes for a less-than-pleasant re-acquaintance with his dinner. Dean strolls out of the diner shortly after, grinning his 'got a girl's phone number' grin, 

Dean freaks out when he sees Sam bent over a puddle of vomit, and frantically ushers Sam back to their motel. When Sam can offer no explanation for his illness (because how do you tell your brother you're going _crazy_ ), Dean calls Uncle Bobby in a panic just in time for John to stumble through the door and fall to his knees, hands clamped to his abdomen as what looks suspicious like his intestines try to push their way out from the inside. 

Dean drops the phone and runs to their father, pale as a sheet and already panicking. 

Sam, numb, picks up the receiver and calmly asks Bobby how to put in stitches. Bobby walks him through it as Sam stiches up his father enough that he doesn't bleed out before the paramedics get there. Dean cries into Sam's shoulder as he grips John's hand within his own, the gratitude so obvious on his face that Sam can even see his typically dim aura bleeding out of his skin and into their father, soaking into Sam's shirt with his tears, until the white t-shirt is tinted the same green as Dean's eyes. 

It should be the beginning of a real partnership between the three of them, Dean a growing physical force and Sam now proven to be competent, but John is terrified for some reason ( _He knows_ , whispers from the back of Sam's mind, _He knows I made this happen, didn't stop it—_ ), buckles down and tries to keep them close when before they were free to come and go as they pleased. 

The first night John is in the hospital, Sam dreams of the man with yellow eyes. He's wound tight, like Dean, so Sam can't see what he feels. He knows things, though. Knows about Sam's powers.

Knows how Sam gets hard at night, thinking about Dean.

He's the only friend Sam has that isn't family.

***

(18)

It's Christmas, and Dean's alone.

John's off on a hunt, or drinking, or meeting the other family Dean knows he goes to see since he's screwed up his blood family beyond repair. 

It's just Dean, a bottle of Jack, and the too-large sweater that Sam left behind when he left for Stanford. Dean feels a certain sense of kinship with the sweater, dirtied up and forgotten. 

Dean sent Sam a gift in the mail, a box of the peanut brittle Dean used to make for Sam when they were kids, and a card with his new cell phone number in it.

He's waiting for Sam to call.

If that damn clock didn't tick so fucking loud, the wait wouldn't even be that bad.

Dean pulls the hood of the sweater over his head and switches from his glass to the bottle lip as the clock ticks its way past midnight.

(/)

It's Sam's first Christmas alone, and he’s fucking Jess hard ~~to quell the loneliness~~ in celebration. Dean's Christmas package is sitting unopened on the floor next to the bed, because Dean shut Sam out of his world, closed off his heart so Sam can't feel it beating anymore, and Sam doesn't need whatever fucking peace offering he's trying to buy Sam off with now. Sam doesn't need Dean. He's never even told Jess he's got a brother, let alone a twin, and Jess treats him like a whole person despite it, not like one who's had half his soul ripped away. 

Brady looks at him funny sometimes, like maybe he can tell, but for the most part Sam is fine.

"Fucking _shit_ , right there, Sam," Jess begs as Sam's cock finds her sweet spot and starts pumping it up so she can squirt. Jess is a demon in the sack, wants everything Sam can dream up to give to her, put in her. If Sam's heart hadn't been ripped out somewhere on the outskirts of Dover, he'd probably be able to give to her, too. 

Jess arches her back, pushes her ass back into the force of Sam's thrusts, and starts screaming as Sam works her to orgasm. The skin along her whole chest and back have turned a deep, flushed pink colour, and Sam is just starting to wonder if maybe she's faking it when she convulses on his cock and comes hard, jerking with enough force that she bounces right off. 

Sam turns her over and fucks back in, grabbing her wrists to pin her down and draw her orgasm out, until she's got tears in her eyes and is begging him to stop. 

Sam doesn't stop. In another few minutes Jess will be begging for it again, and in the meanwhile Sam needs this so he can stop thinking. 

The place in his chest where Dean's heart should be is a frayed, rotted out hollow that refuses to heal. It's the worst feeling in the world, but at least Sam can't feel it that Dean hates him now.

***

(25)

Dean's contacts placed Sam in Oklahoma, but Bobby called with a tip that Gordon's gone rogue. Gordon's proven himself more than once, but before he's Dean's friend or ally, he's a fanatic to the cause. Gordon would rather see Sam with a bullet in the back of his skull than give Dean a chance to save him, and Dean always has to keep that in mind. Bobby's never turned Dean wrong; more than that, Wyoming feels right. It's where Samuel Colt made his mark; it's where Dean's settled more loose ends than he cares to count. He's got one more score to settle, and then he can rest. If things go badly, his baby's got a date with the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and he plans to meet her there. 

It's twilight, and the bugs are swarming. They run up against the edge of the devil's trap and can't make it past; the iron railway tracks are buzzing, like there's a train coming down the line. It feels like a storm's coming, even though the sky is clear— until it's not.

Black smoke rises out of the tree line in the distance, moving fast. Dean settles more firmly on his feet, widens his stance, and grips his shotgun tight. He might have company before Sam even gets here. 

The smoke plunges back into the forest, then out again, like the sandworm from Dune, but it comes no closer. Dean's busy watching, so he misses it when Sam walks out of the forest. 

"Dean," Sam says, voice empty. It's the first time Dean has heard his twin’s voice in two years, since Dean tried and failed to get Sam to help in the search for their father. Dean's chest feels too full and empty all at once, his heart clenching in sympathy at the whirling vortex of darkness superimposed over Sam's heart. His entire aura is being sucked into that hole, the once-beautiful light blue of Sam's soul reduced to the faintest glow of a lonely brown. 

Physically, he looks great. Big as an ox, Dean's little brother. Love and pride and regret choke Dean into silence for a long moment.

"Sammy," Dean says, because that's all he's ever wanted to say. 

"You here to stop me?" Sam asks. He walks out from the forest and runs a hand along the side of the Impala as he approaches, the touch familiar and fond. Dean's skin tingles in response.

"I'm here to get you to stop on your own," Dean answers. He resists the urge to step toward his brother, because he can't show himself as willing to move. Not from this spot. Not from the side of good. Sam'll see, Dean knows it. 

If not... well. Dean's got the gun Sam gave him for their fifteenth birthday in his holster. He's never shot it without Sam there watching. It's the only gun Dean could use for this. (Sam's got the Colt tucked into the front of his pants, but if he's willing to use it on Dean, then Dean is already dead. If Sam's willing to snuff Dean's soul out of the universe, Dean will welcome the darkness.) 

Sam shakes his hair out of his eyes and rounds the front of the Impala; he leans back on her hood, heavy enough now that she bows under his weight. "Funny," Sam says, "You don't look like you're here to talk."

Lightning flashes across the empty sky, sending pinpricks of energy through the air to raise the hair on Dean's arms. "There's more out here than just you, Sam," Dean answers, because it's true. It's not the whole truth, but it's close enough. 

Sam tilts his head at Dean, considering. "You're lying," he says. It's true. "You came out here willing to kill me." He laughs, and it's dark, wrong, everything Dean never wanted to become. "You willing to listen to my counter offer?"

The barrel of Dean's shotgun lowers, just a bit. "I'm not letting you through, so talk all you want."

The unhappy line of Sam's lips thins even further, and he nods. "Fine… Fine." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and when he opens them again they shine yellow. "You know I love you, Dean— I've always loved you. It's because I love you that I'm willing to overlook this," he waves his hand to encompass their situation, "lack of discretion. You come with me, tonight— let me past so I can open the gate— and I'll make sure you, and Bobby, Ellen, Pastor Jim, Garth— you'll all be safe." A sour note enters Sam's voice. "I'll even throw Gordon in, since I know how much you love that little turn coat." 

Dean's heart sinks in his chest and rises to his throat at Sam's words. Not just at the confirmation that Sam wants to unleash Hell on the world, but that Sam's been keeping tabs on Dean enough to know the names of his few friends. Dean's been chasing Sam across the country for years, and Sam's chosen to stay away instead of even _talking_ with Dean. 

"And what'll happen then?" Dean asks, because he has to know. Sam can't be that far gone, because even now Dean loves him, and Dean doesn't want to love a monster.

"Then?" Sam smiles, slow and lazy, and the gold of his eyes shine brighter than ever. The pit in his chest is swirling, faster and faster, until Dean's convinced even the brown will be sucked away to be replaced by gold. "Then I'd keep you with me, make you mine, until you forget about the rest of the world. All you'd need would be me."

It sounds twisted. It should be wrong. But at the same time, "I've always been yours, Sam. You have to know that." That’s not wrong. That’s just _them_. 

The gold flashes, and retreats. "That's a fucking lie," Sam snarls. "You don't need me. You shut me out when we were seventeen, like me going off to school was reason enough for you to cut me off like a diseased limb! Dad said I shouldn't come back, but you're the one who really meant it." Sam laughs, cold, and the gold returns. "You couldn't wait to get him to yourself, could you? I bet it killed you when he died, huh?"

Dean stands there, letting the vitriol pass over him, because despite the filth Sam's spewing, Dean knows, now— believes— that Sam... Sam's hurt. That black monstrosity in his chest that's eating him alive, that place where his heart should be— that's Dean. This loss of his twin that Dean felt just as keenly from his end. 

"That's not true," Dean says, and puts all his raw belief, his love, into the words. "I would never cut you off, Sam. When you left for Stanford it almost killed me. I tried calling, but our," he pauses, stumbles, because he's never really named their connection even to himself, "our bond, it wouldn't work. I tried calling on the fucking _phone_ and you didn't answer. I'd rather have actually lost a limb than lost you." 

Blank-faced, Sam replies, "So come with me. Be mine." 

Dean drops his shot gun and closes the space between them. "I can't," he says. "I've always been yours, Sam, you're mine too, but this goes beyond us. This is the whole world we're talking about. I can't let you... I just can't let you." 

Dean is close enough now to touch, and he reaches his hand out. Just before his fingertips touch Sam's shoulder, he pauses, afraid. They haven't touched since they were teenagers, and Sam's presence has been like a phantom limb since then, aching and present despite its absence. It doesn't seem real that he has his twin back in reach again. 

Dean's hand connects with Sam's shoulder, and the black vortex in Sam's heart sucks Dean in.

***

(∞)

The tub is big enough for both of them. It's one of the more self-indulgent additions to their little corner of the Cage, but everything is, here. They deserve a little selfishness, here of all places.

Dean rolls his head back onto Sam's shoulder, and wiggles into his brother’s embrace, sending water splashing over the sides of the tub. "The water never gets cold," he says, happily.

The smile in Sam's voice is audible when he says, "'Course it doesn't. Our fingers aren't pruning, either."

"Yeah," Dean sighs in agreement. He twists around and presses a wet, sloppy kiss to Sam's mouth. "Heaven's got nothing on your design skills," he says when he draws back. 

Sam leans in for another kiss, soft, but Dean can feel it against the small of his back as Sam's cock twitches in interest. His eyes are sad when they separate. "Heaven doesn't bother with design at all. It just loops people's lives for eternity."

Dean hums his agreement, and turns to face forward again. Struck by a sudden thought, he says, "You think people's souls wear out like that? You know, repeating over and over. Like a tape."

Sam bows his head forward and runs his chin up and down the line of Dean's neck, breaking the beads of condensation on Dean’s skin. "Maybe."

The walls of their sanctuary shudder, and a window appears in the bathroom wall. There's darkness outside of it, or maybe two lights too bright to look at, fighting to get in. Michael and Lucifer are working together again.

Sam wraps himself more firmly around Dean and presses both their palms together. Their bond surges to the surface, painting the walls green and blue. The glass of the window tints until the archangels outside are no longer visible and all that's left is the stained glass colours of Sam'n'Dean. 

The water's cooled in the meanwhile. It's time to get out of the tub. 

They towel each other off, the rough cotton of every motel they've stayed in a tease contrasted against the softness of each other's skin. Sam's hair is sticking to his neck and trailing water down his chest, so Dean leans forward to lick up the stream. It's pure relaxation— comfort in each other's bodies like they will never find anywhere else again.

They don’t rush; they've got nowhere to go, and forever to get there. Wherever they end up, they’ll be together, and that’s a better promise than anyone else has ever offered them.


End file.
